Roofers.

39. Meetings.

Ronan POV.

Her firm grasp had become my only connection to sanity. I felt as though every negligible thing was out to get me. The air became a constrictor, wrapping around my throat as we walked down the endless flight of stairs. I raised my eyes to the crystal chandeliers that hung from the cream-coloured ceiling. Hoping they would fall and crush me before I made it to her mom. Gasping for anything that would make time stop. Fear embedded itself into my lips, holding them shut, and my mind couldn't think of what to say to her.

Scar became defensive when it came to anything in her care. And if her mother was anything like her daughter, then I was pretty much as good as dead.

I'd never struggled with things like this. I had never been afraid of speaking to people. Quiet kids barely made it big around here. I learnt from a young age that if I wanted to be heard then I had to know how to speak to people. I had to master of conversation, learn to navigate my way around words. And even though submission was thought to be connected to introversion, I enjoyed being around others. For the first time in my life, I found myself freaking out over small talk.

I feared tripping over my words. I was afraid of her mother hating me because I wasn't too well versed in travel or whatever it was that wealthy people cared to talk about. I was afraid she'd ask me of my parents, and if she'd care too much about the size of their wallets. I knew that shit could hit the fan if I told her that my dad was an abusive working class alcoholic and that my mother was six feet under in a public cemetery. In addition to my shit show, knowing I was the awful sub who outed her daughter added weight to an already heavy burden.

Paranoia helped nobody and yet still here I was.

I blinked back my thoughts as my feet reached the last step. The smell of food wafted through the air as we walked hand in hand. The sound of sizzling oil, sputtering above the morning songs of birds.

"Ready?" Scar asked. My eyes flickered to her own as they flowered with determination.

"I hope so, mommy" I told her.

"I love you. Regardless of what happens, I do." She whispered, squeezing my hand to remind me she was here.

"I love you too." I told her as I tried to calm the raging storm of butterflies in my stomach. She smiled at me and like a crazy person I grinned back.

With that, she led me into the kitchen. The one the size of every room in my entire apartment combined. A woman with a short, neat bob cut slaved away at the kitchen. She was short, shorter than Scar even. Tall and slender stiletto heels gave her a few extra inches. She wore a tight knee-length dress, with excited frills that shot out from around her waist. She wore a flour-dusted apron over her neat, professional attire. A stack of hot pancakes and other foods rested on the counter behind her. Wisps of steam rose into the air, making me hungrier than I'd thought I was.

"Morning," Scar hummed as she entered the kitchen.

"Mmm," her mother hummed back, keeping her attentions to the food. "What's got you in such a good mood?"

"I have someone I'd like you to meet" She replied, squeezing my hand tighter than before.

"Oh?" her mother asked. Spun around immediately, scrutinous eyes glaring at Scar before they flickered up again and locked to me. I froze.

Her glare, like Scar, was intimidating. Enough to make you shrink into the floor. I watched as surprise and shock marred her face. She looked just like Scar, only older. She had darker skin, the faint evidence of wrinkles had begun to slowly appear. Unlike Scar, her eyes had a certain dullness to them. They were cold and empty. She had thinner lips that she'd pressed into a firm and irritated line. And I wondered if it was because she was looking at me.